


Thirty-Six

by kriari (kadielkrieger), qthelights



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Birthday, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:39:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/pseuds/kriari, https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Misha's thirty-sixth birthday, Jensen lets him make the plans. He fails to imagine the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty-Six

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaylbunny](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kaylbunny).



Of the many and varied life lessons Jensen’s learned, one stands out above all others: never give another person carte blanche control of your life. They invented veto power for a reason after all and though Jensen makes it his business to abstain from exercising his rights as much as humanly possible, he also has a reputation to live up to – that of the responsible adult.

It’s a pretty ridiculous reputation, all things considered, but nonetheless.

If he'd been looking to externalize blame, there are a thousand convenient scapegoats sitting at his fingertips. The long hours. The intense work. The frequent and often acrobatic sex. In truth, he’d just grown complacent, let his guard down for a ten minute stretch that proved more than enough of an opening for Misha.

So yes, when he’d answered, “Whatever you want,” to Misha’s, “And what exactly _are_ we doing for the big day?” Jensen hadn't actually been paying attention.

And heaven forbid Misha or Misha's ego ever catch wind, but until he slipped off on his own with a few seconds to spare and his trusty phone, Jensen had no idea what the fuck Misha was even talking about. Forgetting shit like birthdays and anniversaries comes part and parcel with the Y chromosome package, and while he considers his track record better than most, he's also man enough to admit it only happens because he cheats. Whenever he changes phones, transferring those dates from one to the other always takes top priority. That collection of bytes is the thin red line that lies between Jensen and being an asshole.

In this case, he fucked it up and even though he possessed - still possesses - the knowledge somewhere in the back of his brain, it never coalesced into words or a thought until now.

Misha turns thirty-six on Friday.

Shit.

It's not like they've been doing this - thing - that they're doing for all that long. A couple of months of not bothering to ask. A couple of months of assuming, of ending up at each other's houses after work. Checking in before making plans. A couple months _more_ if you count the time before that when it was casual and based solely around hormones and losing control of them. But this, what that morphed into, is new and still shimmery around the edges.

Not new enough to forget a birthday. To not do something spectacular and fuck, at least a tiny bit _meaningful_ in response to the calendar date.

So yeah. He forgets himself when he answers 'whatever you want', but when the connotations filter in and he realises he's just made a rookie mistake when it comes to Misha and his proclivities, it's too late to take it back. At least two months too late. 

So he lets the question stand and does his best not to think about it.

* * *

Tuesday comes early in a stretch of aching muscles and too little caffeine. Shooting at dawn, while pretty, is a bitch and a half in terms of scheduling. This time is no exception.

Jensen yawns, jaw popping as he hauls open the door to fill the vacant spot in the backseat of the SUV. In the interests of keeping things quiet, he and Misha never _said_ anything about the seating arrangements, but the musical chair routine had worked itself out mostly because Jared's a pushy fucker when he wants to be. That's why he's passed out in the front seat with his mouth hanging open and Misha's slumped in behind Clif looking equally dead to the world.

If nothing else, Jensen knows when to let sleeping dogs lie, so he nods to Clif in the rearview instead and straps himself in.

Thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds of leather creaking and air conditioning whirring quietly, of stowing his bag behind the seat and catching the curve of the headrest against the back of his neck.

Misha gives him thirty seconds before his eyes slit open, sleep swollen and glittering in the flash of streetlights whizzing past the window, his mouth turned up lazily at the corners in that way that makes Jensen want to do things.

"I was thinking last night," he murmurs, voice soft and rough and really not helping anything at all. "How pretty you'd look in lashes and garters. Those lips scream Baby's On Fire."

Even for Misha, it's abstract.

"Huh?" Is all he manages to fumble from his brain to his mouth.

"Lashes," Misha repeats, and the stare is intense despite the sleep. "You'd look good in them."

Jensen blinks and seriously contemplates keeping his eyes shut, pretending he didn’t hear. He's really too tired for this. For Misha.

"I'd look amazing in them," Jensen mumbles, because sometimes it's just easier to go with Misha rather than against him. Like swimming against the tide; It's often easier to drown. "But I don't follow your crazy Martian logic."

Misha's mouth quirks in a way that instantly puts Jensen on alert. "For my birthday. I want to go drag."

"You want to..." Jensen groans as it sinks in. "Are you serious?"

He already knows the answer.

* * *

On Wednesday Jensen gets to sleep in until seven. 

Wednesday is a glorious day. 

Or it was until he slid in next to Misha on the couch, elbows brushing in that way Misha has where he makes accidents purposeful. Jensen remembers yesterday morning, though not by choice, and has even gotten to where he doesn’t hate the idea. It’s a one time deal and something Misha wants. He’s willing if not overly enthused. 

Which is, of course, Misha’s cue to pull the rug out from under him.

“By the way,” he says, careless and casual. “I changed my mind.”

Jensen breathes, resists pinching the bridge of his nose only by sheer force of will.

“And that would be different from every other day because -” 

Misha refuses to rise to the bait, flashes a quicksilver grin before he answers, “Every other day is not today and I feel like kayaking.”

“Won’t that ruin your mascara?”

“Details.”

It's August, so at least it won't be freezing cold out. On the other hand, it is Vancouver. There's a fair chance it will be raining.

Jensen likes this idea even less than going out in drag.

And there's a thought he never thought would pass through his brain. That happens frequently these days.

"Okay," he says simply. Again, it's easier, and despite the change in action, the reason for saying yes remains the same.

Misha nods, satisfied. "It's a date."

Jensen cocks an eyebrow. "I think we're a little beyond 'dating', don't you?"

Misha smirks. "You've barely gotten to third base."

Jensen rolls his eyes and pins Misha to the corner of the couch to prove him just how wrong he is.

* * *

Come Thursday, they're headed to an art studio on the outskirts of town, a warehouse with private suites where they encourage not only alternative mediums, but also tools. Jensen spends most of his downtime researching the best methods for removing acrylics from sensitive places.

Friday devolves into a cavalcade of questionable birthday cards almost immediately, Misha holding court at the eye of a ridiculous maelstrom populated by feathers and plush ponies and obscene T-shirts. When he follows Misha back to his trailer during one of their breaks, Jensen gets to watch him open Jared's actual gift - a leather bound book of unknown origin and content that ends with a softening around Misha's eyes that does _not_ make Jensen jealous. The battery of samosas and moussaka he'd ordered in from Sweet Cherubim pales by comparison and Jensen finds himself making excuses that he'll no doubt feel ridiculous for later. They're celebrating Sunday so they can do it right, and Jared sure as shit ain't the one that makes Misha pant fast and moan into the small hours of Saturday morning. Jensen knows. He was there.

It's not until Saturday afternoon that Jensen feels safe in assuming the plans are sticking. So Misha’s phone ringing doesn’t sound any alarm bells in spite of the fact that he takes the call into the other room. When he returns, he's looking uncharacteristically nervous. Misha doesn't _do_ nervous, or at least, he doesn't show it. 

"What's wrong?" 

Misha's gaze flickers to the television and back to Jensen. "That was my mom. She bought me surprise tickets home for tomorrow."

"Oh," Jensen says and feels ridiculous that his chest has gone tight. He shakes it off. It's not like they're serious enough that it should matter.

Misha's brow furrows and he moves in to sit next to him on the couch. "I know it's a pain, but it’s only a day, and with the set being struck on Monday, we'd be home in plenty of time for filming on Tuesday."

"Wait, what? You want me to come with you?" Jensen stutters, because that is so not where they are right now. Is it?

Misha looks surprised. "Of course. We have a date."

Jensen chuckles, suddenly the one feeling nerves jangling. "Did they invite me?"

Misha pauses a second too long. "Not exactly, but it'll be fine. They're used to me bringing people home with me."

Which makes it sound like there's a constant parade of playthings being taken home to the parents. Nice.

"I feel so special," Jensen deadpans.

Misha frowns and swats at his knee. "You know what I mean. The ones that mean something."

He must take too long to answer, moments stretching to minutes, and when he does glance up again Misha has gone all deer in headlights. Still and breathless, like he realizes full well what he’s said and that Jensen’s answer may be a test they’re both failing. It’s strange and serious and not so much the Misha he’s known as another animal altogether. One who needs, who wants and is uncertain of his reception.

Regardless of what they are or aren’t. Where they are or aren’t, Jensen does not want to be the one responsible for that, so he clears his throat, drops a kiss against the side of Misha’s neck and says, “Yeah. Okay. When’s the flight?”

* * *

The flight turns out to be at seven the next morning, so at five when the alarm on his phone goes off Jensen decides to do the right thing and let Misha sleep a little longer. Disentangling their sleep-warmed limbs is hard though. Misha’s spine is a warm ridge against Jensen’s chest and the pocket of warm, moist air where Jensen’s face is tucked into the crook of Misha’s neck and the pillows is so much nicer than the cooler air a 45 degree turn away.

Turn he must though, and turn he does. Sliding away from Misha’s warmth and into the cool air of the room. It may be August, but early morning in Vancouver is still colder than pressed up against Misha’s naked flesh.

Misha mumbles something unintelligible and burrows further under the covers.

He heads into the shower as quickly as he can so as not to succumb to the desire to get straight back under them with him.

The spray pounds against his scalp, his neck, his back, tenderizing skin and loosening muscles that have gone tight, tension that’s strung tighter. There, with the suds stinging at his eyes, Jensen lets himself have the moment. It’s one he always has at some point in a relationship, as unavoidable and unpredictable as a dust devil spinning up in the desert. The one where he asks himself what the fuck he’s doing and whether he’s really ready and is this his life now. The one that usually coincides with the realization he cares enough to worry about screwing everything up. The one where he admits to himself that, like it or not, it is a relationship.

Nine times out of ten Jensen stays after the asking, but he owes it to himself and to Misha to at least entertain the questions and get them out of his system. The yes comes a little too easy, but it comes. So while this may not have been what he was after from the beginning, he’s good with going wherever Misha seems determined to take them.

This particular case should prove easier than most since he’s actually met Misha’s parents. Sure, it was once upon an April two years ago and he’d flashed his convention smile as Misha made passing introductions, but it also meant they weren’t complete strangers despite a change in context.

That doesn’t mean he’s ready for this. 

His fingers start to prune and since he doesn’t actually plan to spend the entire weekend hiding in the bathroom, Jensen figures now is as good a time as any to vacate.

Toweling off haphazardly and dropping it on the floor in a wet heap he heads back into the bedroom to see if Sleeping Beauty has roused. He hasn’t. A little skitter of annoyance flickers down Jensen’s neck. It’s not like he wants to be up this early on a Sunday. They aren’t _his_ parents after all.

Kneeling on the bed he pushes at the lump of Misha. “Hey, Mish, c’mon. We have a flight to catch.”

“Mmmf,” Misha grunts, succinctly.

Right. That necessitates heavy-handed tactics then. Jensen grabs for the edge of the duvet, lifting up and peering into the darkness. 

He’s considering the merits of pulling the cover off entirely. Misha will be fucking pissed. On the other hand, he’ll also be pouting at him angrily, naked and with hair spiking up in errant directions. And that’s never a bad thing.

Before he can carry out the attack though, Misha launches one of his own, long fingers darting out and wrapping around Jensen’s wrist, tugging with strength that belies Misha’s frame. Ten seconds later and Jensen is in the same place he started. Naked and under the covers with a warm body next to him.

Only this time it’s Misha curled around his back, Misha’s breath warm and moist against the back of his neck, and Misha’s erection hard and insistent against his ass.

They so don’t have time for this.

“Misha, seriously,” Jensen sighs. Misha chuckles, a rumble in his chest that lights up every nerve ending Jensen’s ever had and some he hadn’t thought to pay attention to. Between one breath and the next, fingers dance down over his hip and veer across his stomach,clearly headed more interesting places. It’s purposefully distracting and borderline infuriating, but that only makes it more Misha. 

Sometimes Misha needs saving. Almost always from himself. 

Jensen tries again, reaching valiantly across the space between him and the nightstand to snag his phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe of his thumb.

“We have exactly one hour and thirty-two minutes to be standing at the gate.”

Misha hums, lips soft and warm at the nape of Jensen’s neck but makes no move to get up. Or dressed. Or anything resembling presentable. 

“You’re going to feel like such a dick for wasting your mom’s money and I won’t have that on my conscience,” Jensen says and squirms away as best he can. Misha locks on with a thigh and an arm threaded across his body.

“I suppose that depends,” Misha murmurs, tongue slick and supple in the hollow behind Jensen’s ear. Jensen’s dick twitches despite their timetable, a tightness in his chest that pushes at the back of his throat. He’s so tempted to let Misha reel him in, so ready to say fuck it and let Misha guilt trip himself later because the fine, upstanding citizen act is starting to wear thin.

“On?” he asks, grimaces around the tone in his voice because it’s ridiculous. Misha’s ridiculous. This whole charade is - 

“On whether there were tickets in the first place.”

Despite the fact that he should be used to this by now, the one-eighties that occur on an hourly basis with Misha, it still takes a second to filter through and causes him to freeze.

"What?"

Misha's still warm and supple draped around him, but he tenses ever so slightly. With good reason, because Jensen feels he could go either way on this one, give up or get pissed.

He turns over under the blanket of limbs and onto his back to get a look at Misha's face. As if that might help.

"Um..." Misha's mouth is twisted ruefully and his eyes glint with familiar mischief. "There may not have been any tickets."

He tries to parse that a few times with no luck. Misha's fingers are dragging in slow circles on his stomach, not reaching for anything but biding their time, maybe even soothing. Eventually he goes with simple. "Why?"

Misha shifts, props himself up on an arm over him. His breath is a warm ghosting across Jensen's mouth.

"Partly I wanted to fuck with you," Misha's teeth flash in a grin before he turns serious. "But mainly I wanted the element of surprise."

"For?" Jensen's pretty proud of the way his voice doesn't quaver at the idea of Misha and surprises in the same sentence.

"My superduper excellent birthday plan." Misha must deem it safe enough, risks a dip and lick along Jensen's bottom lip. Jensen thinks it's a little premature, but he lets it be.

"Which is?"

"You, me and a warm bed for an entire day."

"That's it?" Jensen asks, incredulous.

Misha nods, and the silence speaks volumes. This is what he _really_ wants.

Any other day, Jensen would be duty-bound to fuck with Misha, turnabout being fair play and all. Today’s not any day though and Jensen’s got a hornet’s nest buzzing in his chest so fierce and fast he can’t think much less understand how Misha doesn’t hear it.

Here he’d thought meeting the parents would be the hardest thing he’d have to do between now and noon Monday. This is something else, something more and less and different.

His answer’s still the same. 

Misha bends with him as he moves, twist of hips and shoulders, a collection of steps they pace out flawlessly and Jensen wonders when that happened without really caring about the answer. Because whenever, wherever, whatever he did - he ended up here with Misha mussed and bright-eyed and half-pinned beneath him. And he’s grateful.

So he smiles and laps at the curve of Misha’s mouth until his lips part, drawls his, “Reckon I can oblige,” into the warm shell of Misha’s ear and means it.

He doesn’t miss the shiver that slinks down Misha’s body. He chases it with his mouth, sucking on the dimple of Misha’s stubbled chin and following the arch of his throat with his lips as Misha throws his head back into the pillow.

The groan that purrs against his lips as he slides his tongue down Misha’s throat is confirmation of the right decision. Simultaneously he slips his hand down over Misha’s stomach and scratches through the dark coiled hair with blunt nails.

He smiles against warm skin as Misha’s hips hitch up into the touch, demanding the grip of Jensen’s hand.

He’s happy to oblige.

When Misha comes it’s with a gasping hitch of breath in Jensen’s hand. Jensen follows soon after, comes apart against Misha’s hip. 

They fall back to sleep in a tangle of warmth as dawn breaks over the city.

* * *

Warmth wakes him, not the slick heat of Misha’s mouth, but the sun peeking in through the blinds in wide bands of light that slice across his chest and face. He’s been restless for an hour now anyway, unable to dip all the way back under ever since he got up to take a piss. While the idea of lazing in bed all day sounds incredibly decadent in theory, in practice it kinda makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

Misha seems to have no such problem - deep, even breaths huffed against the skin stretched over Jensen’s ribs, Misha’s nose pressed right up to them like he’s trying to burrow his way inside. His hair tickles, a squashed fan of it flaring wildly against Jensen’s side, and Jensen gives up pretending he’s not watching Misha sleep.

Truth drives him from the bed as much as the ache settling in his lower back. He slips free quietly and steps into a pair of workout shorts he’d slung across his desk chair yesterday morning.

Vertical feels incredible, cool tile beneath his feet, spine pulling his posture square. His stomach growls as he tugs the bedroom door shut behind him. Rules or no, they’ll have to eat at some point and if Misha wakes up pissed about him shirking his birthday duties, pancakes with blackberry syrup, bacon, and a pair of over-easy eggs will no doubt go a long way in taming his temper.

Hell, he’d planned on making breakfast anyway. Before.

In the kitchen he takes his time, pottering about in a manner reminiscent of his dad; getting ingredients from the fridge one at a time even though he could load up an armful and be done in one trip.

Bacon in one pan, pancake mix in the other he flips open one of the junk mail catalogues in the pile awaiting recycling. Three pairs of men’s briefs for a dollar. Twenty percent off floral linens. He flips the pancakes when the bubbles make it through to the top side of the mix. Cracks the eggs into the leftover bacon fat.

By the time it’s ready he’s done with being upright. Misha’s idea of a day in bed has taken scarcely any time to embed itself in Jensen’s psyche as a good idea.

He nudges the door open with his foot and carefully navigates the piles of clothing that have erupted from the floor. 

A tousled Misha blinks blearily up at him. “Bacon?” he asks hopefully, voice smeared with sleep.

Jensen suppresses the laugh just in time. Somehow, Misha strikes a balance between guileless and completely edible as he piles pillows behind his back and tugs the sheet into a white swaddle around his hips where it’s fallen away. Against his better judgment, Jensen relents when Misha makes impatient grabbing gestures because apparently he’s been driven non-verbal by the promise of greasy pork and pancakes.

Plate in hand, Misha draws it close, inhaling deeply.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Jensen quips, settling himself cross-legged against the headboard, one knee flush up against a patch of Misha’s thigh that somehow escaped the covers.

Misha snorts a laugh that gets lodged in his throat, finishes his forkful of pancake before he says, “I cannot tell a lie.”

The bacon in Jensen’s mouth nearly ends up down the wrong pipe.

“Okay, Pinocchio,” he says, spearing a bite of pancake with enough force to tip his plate to a precarious angle. “By my estimate, your nose should be six feet long by now. Don’t push your luck.”

There’s a rustle of bed covers that draws his eye and Misha’s smirking at him, a spot of syrup clinging at the corner of his lips that Jensen does not want to thumb away. 

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Misha murmurs. “But who wants to be a real boy anyway.” 

“I don’t know,” Jensen says, puts his plate on the nightstand for a moment and turns back to Misha who is looking at him expectantly. “It seems to me like there are certain things that a real boy has a bit of an advantage on.”

He pulls Misha’s plate to the side, rests it on the mattress out of their way and leans in to lick the blue syrup off the side of Misha’s mouth.

“Damnit,” Misha mutters into Jensen’s mouth as their lips slide together in a mess of bacon and sugar.

“What?” Jensen asks, lips nuzzling at the stubble of Misha’s cupids bow.

“I may have to concede that point. I hate that,” Misha mumbles, sounding genuinely put out.

Jensen laughs and sucks Misha’s pouted bottom lip into his mouth.

* * *

In the end, Misha concedes more than the point. He concedes bathroom breaks are an unfortunate necessity and agrees that he’d rather not relieve himself in one of the water bottles Jensen was sent to fetch at ten thirty. He concedes that while curling up under the covers to while the day away may be the most ingenious plan ever, there’s sun shining beyond the window and that’s enough of a rarity in Vancouver it should be taken advantage of.

Jensen thinks that’s how they end up in the backyard anyway. Technically they’re still horizontal, so at least they’re in accordance with whatever non-sensical array of rules Misha’s got spinning around in his brain. Not that he wouldn’t break them. He would in a heartbeat, but it’s the principle of the thing and part of their shtick that he calls Misha on it when he’s being self-hypocritical. 

Today though, he’s just along for the ride. 

And if that ride gets him time to bask on one of the canvas lounge chairs he’d had shoved up under the deck, time with Misha’s head pillowed against his chest, time to read the actual paper like a normal human being - Jensen’s pretty okay with bending the rules.

Misha shifts suddenly, restlessly between Jensen’s legs and curses, “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“Something wrong?” he asks. An honest question because he can’t imagine what bee might have buzzed up Misha’s bonnet now. Aside from the ass o’clock wake up call, everything today has been pretty damned idyllic.

“This,” Misha says, stabs a finger at the paper tented not five inches from his face. “Is depressing.”

“Which one?”

Misha sighs and shrugs. “All of them,” he says. “Death. Death. Robbery. Political corruption. Corporate espionage and embezzlement.”

“So don’t read them?” Jensen offers helpfully. “You worked at the White House, dude. Surely you ran into worse shit than the New York Times.”

“And what’s the point?”

“Of?”

“This!” Misha thrusts a finger at the paper again, hard enough it slips in Jensen’s grip. “None of this makes anything better.”

“Right,” Jensen says slowly, carefully because Misha’s leaning against his nuts and one does not anger those who could easily turn one into a eunuch. “I can put it away?”

Jensen starts to fold the paper back up, the pages sliding between his fingers as he lays what he hopes is a calming hand on Misha’s chest.

“That doesn’t fix anything.”

“So let’s do that,” Jensen says, smiling into the riot of dark hair with a sigh. He taps the headline on the front page with the back of his hand and tucks his chin atop Misha’s head. The sad fact is - Misha’s right. The front page offers nothing but tales of oil spills, unrest in the middle east, and systemic medical malpractice. “Okay. Start small. What about this one? ‘Harvard Finds Scientist Guilty of Misconduct’.”

Misha sighs. “What do you want me to do?”

“Rewrite it. Give me a happy ending.”

“Jensen,” Misha grumbles in annoyance.

“Just try it.”

Misha huffs and reads over the paper. “Fine. A scientist found guilty of misconduct for unfunded use of university equipment finds cure for every cancer known to man.”

Jensen laughs into Misha’s hair. “See now? That wasn’t so hard. Try another one.”

They scroll through a few more, Jensen picking the story and Misha dutifully re-writing it. By the time Misha turns a gang assassination into Ali Baba’s Thieves seeking revenge for stolen gold and jewels, Jensen thinks Misha has the hang of it. He’s also sounding decidedly happier, he thinks, as Misha explains that only thirty-nine of the thieves were in attendance because one - Bob - was out with the flu.

* * *

Given that it’s Misha’s birthday, he’s pretty sure that he’s meant to be the one doing the pampering. And yet when he wakes in the early evening, back in bed where they’d retired, sunburned and freckled when the day got too hot, it’s with Misha’s mouth suctioned over his cock.

“Nnnggh,” he manages as he, and his cock, twitch with the realisation. 

Misha smiles, lets Jensen slide from his mouth with a slick ‘pop’. “Evening.”

Before he can formulate a response along the lines of _what are you doing_ , _oh my god Misha, don’t stop_ , or the slightly over the top but no less heartfelt for it, _Jesus Misha, marry me_ , Misha has descended back onto him. Sucking Jensen’s erection down to the base so that he can feel the back of Misha’s throat against the sensitive head.

His hands fist in the sheets, groping desperately as Misha works him, tongue massaging and teasing and throat swallowing against the pressure.

When Misha starts humming, seemingly in pleasure, Jensen loses it with a shudder and strangled moan, jerking and spilling into Misha’s mouth.

“It’s _your_ birthday,” he manages as he pants, chest heaving in exertion. “I should be the one doing that to you, man.”

Misha crawls on all fours up the bed towards him. It’s quite the sight considering he’s naked and his own erection hangs heavy between his legs. Jesus. Misha will be the death of him one day. He’s sure of it.

Maybe even today.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Misha says, teeth flashing white in the moonlight. He’s close enough now for Jensen to smell the sun on him, the scent of his skin enough to make Jensen swallow hard and shiver even though he’s already come. 

It’s a sickness he’s not looking to cure. 

Misha rocks back to sit on his heels once he draws even with Jensen’s shoulders, gripping himself loosely. His eyes are lost in shadows, so Jensen can’t fathom a guess what he’s thinking, couldn’t rub two brain cells together right now to do it in the first place.

“Up,” Misha says, plainly, perfunctorily. 

Jensen licks his lips, a purely Pavlovian response as Misha thumbs a bead of precome away. He forgets that he’s supposed to be moving until Misha nudges his arm with a knee.

“Where?” is all Jensen asks, closing his eyes to breathe easy for the space of seconds. He’s content in his complacency for now. 

“Lean up against the headboard,” Misha says, smiles. He grips himself again and gives his dick a long, sure stroke. “About yea high.”

That makes it through, barely, and the sheets are already warm when Jensen slides up into a slump.

“This good?” 

Misha hums and swings a leg across, the hair dusted along the inside of his thighs tickling against sensitive skin. It’s beautiful and obscene to be boxed in like this, Misha flooding his senses.

Then Misha’s cock is pressing at his lips, sliding on precome and saliva as Jensen opens to him, to the feel and taste and scent of Misha in his mouth. It’s intoxicating and he sucks, not because it’s required, but because he wants to pull Misha in completely, suck him inside like sugar-coat off candy.

Misha groans and braces against the wall. It’s his show and Jensen settles back for the ride. The riding. Whatever.

Misha’s hips begin to piston, in and out, his chin tipped down to watch his cock in Jensen’s mouth. The look on Misha’s face is enough to make Jensen’s ridiculously spent dick give an interested twitch, even if it ain’t gonna happen again today, barring some kind of miracle.

Jensen massages at the back of Misha’s thighs, lets his fingers dip into the hollows behind his knees and caress silky skin. 

In and out, back and forth, Jensen’s jaw begins to ache and his mouth is beginning to dry as he breathes through his nose, unable to swallow with ease. Then Misha’s left hand flies from the wall to Jensen’s hair, pulls tight and slightly painful as he quickens the pace, groans and moans and comes with a shout down Jensen’s throat.

When they disentangle they slide down the mattress, Jensen pulling the sheets up over them. They absolutely do not spoon or cuddle or anything so un-manly. Except for the part where they kinda do.

“Next year we’re doing drag, just so you know,” Misha murmurs sleepily as he burrows into the sheets, his ass pushing into Jensen’s crotch. “Don’t think this lazing around thing gets you out of anything.”

Jensen smiles and kisses the back of Misha’s neck. “It was your idea, remember.” When Misha fails to respond though, he wonders. “This was.. good though, yeah? What you wanted?”

Misha makes a noise that sounds suspiciously close to a snort. “Yes, Jensen. Paranoid much?”

Jensen pinches the soft skin of Misha’s side lightly. 

“Hey!” Misha yelps indignantly and rolls over to face him.

Jensen just arches an eyebrow until the annoyance on Misha’s face softens into something warmer. 

“Yes. It was the best birthday ever. Does my gratitude necessitate an official thank you note?”

It’s only a little bit sarcastic.

“Good,” Jensen nods and manhandles Misha back around. The clock on the nightstand clicks over to midnight as he watches but he’s too fucked out to start plotting his revenge just yet. Instead he murmurs, “Now go to sleep,” into Misha’s hair and shuts his eyes to do the same.

* * *


End file.
